


who fears the road ahead

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Fix-it fic, I'm basically forging my own path on the littler things, M/M, a little different than last time, a very decided MIXTURE of book and movie canon, hobbit kink meme fill, hopefully better than last time, yes hello friends I am back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child of Yavanna and a child of Aulë wake, separated by leagues and memories and 60 years. </p><p>"The fools better get it right this time," he growls.</p><p>His wife smiles and strokes his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux
> 
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> I'm back & I'm trying ta make it better. This first few chapters are pretty similar to the first editions, although there are several little changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux
> 
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> I'm back & I'm trying ta make it better. This first few chapters are pretty similar to the first editions, although there are several little changes.

They wake up at the same time.

Bilbo is confused because the last thing he remembers is the gentle rocking of a wide boat on the wider sea; the cushions supporting his creaky, arthritic bones smelling strongly of rosemary and slightly of sea salt; the sounds of Gandalf puffing his pipe and of conversational (edged just barely with anticipation) Sindarin and of Frodo's warbling laughter melding pleasantly in his ear - but now he is curled up under his father's quilt, joints folded together without a singular complaint, gazing past his mother's curtains out to a sunbathed Shire.

Thorin is confused because he hadn't expected the Halls of Mandos to look exactly like his dingy quarters in Ered Luin.

Both are struck with a constricting sense of loss and an expanding sense of dread.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux
> 
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> I'm back & I'm trying ta make it better. This first few chapters are pretty similar to the first editions, although there are several little changes.

Bilbo's ears are filled. He registers the early morning Shire birds twittering now, but his ears still insist that he was just listening to the hoarse calls of seagulls, and sandwiched somewhere between the two is the small, curious feeling that he heard something that ought not be forgotten.

The sheets slide against his skin in an impossible soft way as he sits up. Strange. The last time he'd slept here, these sheets had been considerably coarser, made so by the march of age; where was the deep fraying from Frodo, just a faunt then, diving frantically into Bilbo's bed after a particularly vicious nightmare?

Much of his bedroom is different from the last he saw it, in fact. Did Frodo do some rearranging before---?

Oh.

Bilbo shoves the heels of his hands sharply into his eyes; the force brings colors to sprout against the black of his closed lids. Oh, Frodo's beloved eyes, so blue and piercing and haunted. His pale complexion, the continual clutch at his shoulder.

That accursed ring.

Looking back beyond the Grey Havens is rather like peering into a well: everything seems to waver and ripple at random, and searching too eagerly leads to a shadow obscuring just where you want to see most. Living in that time was much worse than that. Things meandered up to him rather than rushing forward, and he couldn't get a full grasp on them when they arrived anyway. He hadn't fully understood, then, the connection between that dreadful heirloom and Frodo's too-often vacant gaze. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to remember that it was dreadful. Bilbo cringes when he thinks of the wagon ride when he asked Frodo about the damned thing. The memory of a sunny day in Rivendell physically repulses him.

That thrice-damned ring.

"Oh, my dear boy," Bilbo sighs, then pauses at the sound of a voice that croaks only with the heaviness of sleep, not the rust of age.

Pieces are beginning to click together, and though Bilbo's always been good at predicting the outcomes of puzzles, he can't make heads nor tails of it. He's not even sure he wants to.

Bilbo clambers out of bed, and one thing's for sure: he's young again. He feels it in his knees, troublesome things they once were, which don't so much as crack with the movement. He feels it in his shoulders, strong as they ever were, and his straight posture. He sees it in his hands, skin smooth and unpatterned by liver spots or pockmarks.

"So, is this some magic of Valinor? To be returned your vigor, to be placed in a beloved spot?" Bilbo says aloud, rather expecting Gandalf to round the corner and deliver the affirmative in that amused way of his, or, more realistically, to simply smile enigmatically.

But the hobbit does not need a wizard to know how overwhelmingly unlikely this scenario is; for surely Frodo would be with him, and besides, even an eleventy-and-two year old hobbit could not sleep through an entire ocean.

And miss multiple meals apparently, Bilbo thinks, as his stomach begins to gnaw on his inner walls.

Perplexion is no reason to skimp out on breakfast.

Bilbo throws on a patchwork robe - another beloved relic - and moves to the kitchen, fingers tracing lightly along the well-known walls. Amazing how accurate this was, right down to the small dent the fauntling Bilbo had put in the dining room wall (the first and last time Belladonna allowed him to fight orcs inside Bad End).

It is as he walks past a window that the second possibility approaches him.

He can see Samwise Gamgee walking down Bag Shot Row. Whistling, a hoe slung over his shoulder, he looks a fair sight better than he did at the docks, crying and embracing Frodo. Bidding Frodo farewell. Standing on the docks with Meriadoc and Peregrin, growing smaller as the ship moved away.

Samwise Gamgee could not possibly be in Valinor.

Bilbo doesn't even know how to feel about being sent back as a spirit (outrage, disappointment, panic), before Samwise notices him frozen in the frame of the window.

"Good mornin', Mister Bilbo!" He bellows, waving his free hand over his head. His sleeve slides along his arm a bit, baring a pink scar tapering off halfway down his forearm.

Oh, havens above, it's Holman Greenhand.

"Rorimac's wife, she's started her labor pains!" Holman continues, grinning excitedly, "I’m headin’ over to their hole just as soon as I find Hamfast and tell him to finish mindin’ the cabbages! Oh, we're all in an uproar!"

Rorimac Brandybuck, father of Saradoc Brandybuck, a cheerful fellow born a fortnight before Bilbo had the exclusive privilege of hosting thirteen dwarves and one overbearing wizard.

Bilbo had forgotten how he could faint at the drop of a hat in his younger years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I've actually set this two weeks before Gandalf arrives. it's just easier/better for me ok.
> 
> Holman Greenhand is the cousin of Hobson (or Roper) Gamgee, who is Hamfast Gamgee's father. Hamfast Gamgee is the Old Gaffer, Samwise Gamgee's father. Hamfast came to live with Holman at some unspecified point; I've decided to make it so he's living there now. Hamfast is about 14, and Holman is 48.
> 
> also: Saradoc Brandybuck, the fellow being born, grows up to marry Esmeralda Took, and eventually produces Meriadoc Brandybuck.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things never change.
> 
> (Bilbo's still a fool.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux
> 
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> I'm back and I'm trying ta make it better. This first few chapters are pretty similar to the first editions, although there are several little changes.

Bilbo meanders down Bagshot Row, laden basket heavy on one arm, head tipped to the sun. The trip to the market had been so lovely, just what he needed to stretch his legs and to hear all the gossip - not that any of it was new to him. It followed in the same vein as all Shire gossip, and Bilbo was able to listen to it with the faint familiarity that comes with hearing something you heard long ago and then forgot.

"Mister Bilbo!"

Bilbo turns to see Holman Greenhand walking towards him, waving his hat. The tips of Bilbo's ears begin to burn. He hasn't seen the gardener since his disastrous awakening three days ago. Bilbo has to force himself to stay in place as Holman approaches; he rather feels like leaping a fence and bolting somewhere far far away.

"Mister Bilbo, did you hear about all that trouble young Paladin and Esmeralda stirred up at the Great Smials? Oh, I laughed til I was 'bout fit to weep when Hamfast told me! Say what you may ‘bout the Tooks, but they don’ waste time gettin’ into spectacular scrapes!"

Bilbo has, of course, but he is content to hear Holman's delighted retelling.

The two talk amicably as they move down the lane, although Bilbo's ears will insist on burning red hot the entire time. Finally they stop before the gate into Bag End.

Holman's lively face has gone serious, and he holds Bilbo's gaze.

"You goin' to be alrigh', Mister Bilbo?"

Bilbo softens, "Yes, I expect I will be."

Holman nods and a small smile returns, "You might want to splash some water on those ears when you get inside."

Bilbo scowls.

"And don't go hidin' for another three days just because I embarrassed you again!" Holman says, continuing down the lane.

"Awfully bossy for a gardener, don't you think?" Bilbo yells after him. His response is a dismissive flick of the hand over his shoulder.

Bilbo enters Bag End chuckling, and commences with putting away his spoils, ignoring the shattered platter in the entryway and the splintered stool in the sitting room.

The lethargy of Bilbo’s old age had reduced any emotions to a sluggish movement in his breast, hard to distinguish from indigestion or a weak heart. However, three days ago, when Bilbo awoke from his faint to Holman’s concerned eyes, his whole body roared. He managed to usher Holman out of his smial (by being quite rude, unfortunately) in quick time; but then the tempest of a youth’s temperament with an elder’s regrets swallowed him, and Bilbo grieved as he never had before.

It finally ebbed away the night before, and by this morning Bilbo had found the strength to make himself look presentable and find his way down to the market.

It's all quite fuzzy, but Bilbo thinks he started breaking things right around the time he thought of Balin's tomb, deep in the heart of Moria, that stupid dwarf, hadn't the awful place soaked up enough blood, it wasn't worthy---

Bilbo slams a jar of strawberry preserves onto the shelf with more force than he intends, and exhales sharply.

What is he, an uncivilized Dwarf? To mindlessly break furniture and dinnerware, and then to just leave it?

How Bungo would lecture if he saw him now.

How he would lecture if he knew anything about Bilbo's past-future-present, or whatever this strange repetition lands on that scale.

And how Belladonna would smile.

"Still an achy old hobbit on the inside, then," Bilbo mutters, wrinkling his nose, "And still a mad codger talking to himself."

He shuffles out of the stocked pantry to find a broom and maybe a semblance of normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probs should have waited until tomorrow to post this, but eh. I don't know why I can only write such short chapters, but it's a struggle. next one should be longer.
> 
> Paladin II (7) and Esmeralda (4) are Tooks, 2nd(????) cousins of Bilbo's, and brother and sister. Esmeralda is Meriadoc's mom.
> 
> also if there is a note below about a prologue, please ignore it! it's not supposed to be there and I can't get rid of it! it should be attached to the first chapter.


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo stocks his pantry, but preparing for the return of his dwarves is a little more difficult than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux
> 
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> this has a new scene! and then it's two old chapters cobbled together. 
> 
> sorry I haven't updated and only just responded to your comments: I was on a vacation, and now I'm up to my ears in school work. I'll try to update sooner!

“Say Mister Baggins, are you planning a party?”

 

Bilbo looks up from perusing an array of vegetables to raise an eyebrow at the Noakes boy running the stall.

 

“O-only you’ve been at the market near every day and it’s unusual...for you, see,” The boy continued, flushing a little at Bilbo’s scrutiny.

 

It’s probably unfair to think of him as a boy, he’d likely reached his majority a couple years ago, but the boy was so clumsy in his inquiries it was easy to think him younger.

 

“Oh no, I’m afraid not,” Bilbo says, perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary; but there are at least four more Hobbits casually pretending not to listen, and he’d like to get his alibi circulating. “I’ve just been experimenting with a box of old family recipes I’ve recently uncovered.”

 

The boy merely nods and makes a quiet noise of understanding. Bilbo very purposely does not notice the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

 

“Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take quite a bit of celery off your hands,” Bilbo adds, more kindly than before. The boy perks up, and smiles even more when Bilbo pays him. He hasn’t even noticed the extra few coins yet.

 

Melilot Smallburrow at the next stall asks him if he has any new stew recipes in that box of his, and whether he’d be willing to exchange for a sweetbread recipe, as “Baggins are always makin’ the best stews, beggin’ your pardon Mister Baggins,” and Hugo Twofoot, on the other side of the market, suggests Bilbo throw a party to celebrate the new piece of family history.

 

Stall folk are forced to be the biggest gossips in the Shire, Bilbo knows, but it’s still impossibly irritating. He wraps up his shopping for the day and hurries up the lane, casting a few tight smiles to those he passes. The hobbit quickens his pace at the sight of his door, but ends up snarling at himself as he smacks his elbow on the edge of the gate. It hasn’t helped his mood at all that he can hardly sleep, increasing his clumsiness and despondency. He wakes in starts, the sound of a gruff voice and the smell of hot iron haunting him in his bed. Every night, he wants to grope about in the dark, feeling as though something enormously important is hanging just out of reach.

 

Closing his door with a soft sigh, Bilbo hangs his head before trudging down the hall into the near-overflowing pantry. He begins to unload the groceries, grumbling under his breath. He had thought he was being rather sneaky, buying only a handful of things over time, purposely trying to avoid appearing like he was stocking up for a party. Which he wasn’t.

 

At least, not a party like Hobbiton was hoping for. This would not be enough for any kind of Hobbit party, not even a simple celebration of a recipe box (which was not unprecedented).

 

But hopefully enough for a party of dwarves.

 

Heaving another, louder sigh, Bilbo knocks on the wood frame of the pantry, and aimlessly moves through the sunlit tunnels of Bag End, hand tracing along the walls much like the first morning he'd woken.

 

Rorimac Brandybuck, his wife, and the new-born Saradoc are due for a visit in a few hours, and Bilbo should be in the kitchen working on that pie he's planning, but he can’t quite interest himself in the banality of it all. For the hundredth time this week, Bilbo finds himself deeply overwhelmed.

 

Denial is such a consuming habit. All of his mind is trained on keeping the deception in place, and he dares not let go in fear of the realizations swarming forth at some inconvenient time.

 

There are a lot of things to deny.

 

And no time to deny them.

 

Bilbo sighs as he walks past the calendar Falco had kindly gifted him on Falco's coming of age (homely little thing it is, but had been made specifically for Bilbo and so was displayed proudly in a back hallway of the smial).

 

He has a week.

 

A week to accept that he is going to have thirteen dwarves on his doorstep, the only thirteen beings in all of Middle-Earth he'd sacrifice anything for (until Frodo is born, at least).

 

Thirteen dwarves that know nothing about him beyond what Gandalf tells them (a lie) and what they see in his home. Thirteen dwarves he'll have to prove himself to all over again.

 

Three dwarves he's seen dead. He doesn't dwell on that (more than he already has). Three dwarves he was spared the sight, but still knows the fate of. He mourned them not even two years past.

 

Ten dwarves never bothered to visit him. He had to get news of them all from Gloin's son, 60 years later.

 

Tears sting his eyes. Had they ever valued him like he them? Maybe he should just slam the door right in their faces, leave them to find another burglar, another hobbit.

 

Bilbo laughs aloud at that. There’s no way he’d ever be able to reject any of his dwarves, not even Gloin, who was the cruelest to him in the beginning.

 

Aside from Thorin, of course. And it was laughable, truly, what Bilbo would do for Thorin Oakenshield.

 

Thorin bloody Oakenshield.

 

Bilbo would be lying if he said he hasn’t been trying very hard to ignore the idea of Thorin. He’d also be lying if he said he was successful.

 

He'd had 60-some years to dull that particular blade, and quite nearly managed to eradicate the pain entirely.

 

Yes, he'd never remarried, but that was only because he preferred being a bachelor. Besides, it’s not as if it was a real marriage; Thorin was gone not even an hour after their vows. Bilbo vividly remembers Thorin's hand going limp in his, Gandalf's lowered eyes as he shuffled forward to check one last time, the screams that bottled up in his throat and echoed in his empty body.

 

Yes, definitely not a real marriage.

 

And of course Bilbo had adopted Frodo purely out of love for his deceased cousins, his disdain for another cousin, and because of the spirit he could see shining out of the boy's eyes. It had nothing to do with the shade of Frodo's eyes (a sharp, stunning blue), and the way they contrasted with that thick, black hair. Indeed, nothing to do with the fact the Frodo looked like he could be Thorin's son.

 

Now though, now, with the possibility--no, the certainty of Thorin’s arrival, of seeing a flesh-and-bone Thorin, Bilbo feels the blade keener than ever.

 

He finds himself back in the kitchen, and picks up working on the pie. Making a pie is simple for him, the actions are empty and mechanical after hundreds of hours spent so. His thoughts continue to twist and turn miserably. They seem to swirl about in his head, chasing around and around; no matter how they might stray, he always ends back at the images of broken bodies, of Fili and Kili lying still, of Thorin choking on blood and reaching for Bilbo’s hand, and then a deep, bone-aching feeling of despair.

 

"Bugger!" He hisses as he rolls over his little finger with the rolling pin. As he examines the finger, watching it turn pink and begin to pulse in time with his heartbeat, the pain clears his mind.

 

The idea hits him, like a hammer to an anvil.

 

Thorin can live.

 

Bilbo can change things. He’s already changed them. He can continue to change them.

 

The world is not constricted by fate; the Valar are kinder than that. Fili and Kili can live. Thorin can live.

 

They will live.

 

Their burglar will ensure that.

 

(Bilbo sleeps soundly that night.)

* * *

 For the next few days, Bilbo has such great debates with himself over how he should act and react and what he should say or not say through the course of the journey that, on the morning of Gandalf's first visit, he has no plan for dealing with the wizard.

 

Mahal, he’d clean forgot, and it was only the unbreakable habit of a morning smoke that put him on the bench.

 

“I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.” Gandalf delivers the line just as weightily as before, and Bilbo finds himself just as panicked as the first time, albeit for new reasons. All he can do is stare at the wizard, eyes wide and mouth quietly stuttering. Gandalf draws his eyebrows close together, and asks if Bilbo is indeed Belladonna Took’s son.

 

“We-well, yes, b-but I’m afraid we don’t quite welcome those things here. You might have more luck over the hill or across the river. No adventures he-here, please and thank you!” Bilbo says.

 

Gandalf says something about Belladonna and Tooks and being late for dinner (sounds rather presumptuous) in his usual lecture voice, and Bilbo nods along politely as he inwardly begs the daft wizard to take Bilbo at exactly opposite his meaning.

 

“Tr-truly, go ask someone else, I will not listen to any of this!” Bilbo says, quickly standing up and scurrying to his door, cries “Now good day!” and shuts the door firmly behind him. He doesn't pause beside the door, instead striding deeper into Bag End and (hopefully) leaving Gandalf to his carving.

 

Later, as Bilbo slips out of the smial to return Beryl Boffin's visit, he notices the blue mark, glittering softly in the light. He ignores the tears springing to his eyes, and casually allows his fingers to caress the mark.

  
"Bless you, Gandalf," he whispers, "May all the Valar smile on you for this."


	5. sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is neither the first nor the last of the painful days Thorin has or will have faced by this journey's end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for hobbit kink meme, redux  
> "Both Thorin and Bilbo go back in time to the morning of Gandalf's arrival in Hobbiton, and are obliged to relive the quest, trying to improve things using future knowledge. Neither one knows the other knows."
> 
> thank fuck I finally got this written. holy shit, it wasn't going to be this difficult, I just strung a few old chapters together, but then the connecting scene, the only thing I really had to write, evolved into an annoying little booger and so now there's like two massive shifts in style. I'm so sorry. maybe I'll edit it one day. right now I'm just so happy it's done, so I can move on to bigger and better things.
> 
> and with this chapter, we see Thorin and we literally double the word count of the story.

Thorin leaves the inn early, so early that the innkeep, a Barliman Butterbur who is entirely too warm towards a travelling dwarf, isn't at his customary perch, and the barest hint of light is just beginning to turn the east sky a hazy indigo. He leaves his payment on the counter (having to go tiptoe in order to reach it, something that puts him entirely out of countenance) with a hasty note of thanks.

Thorin already felt exhausted down to his bones, even without this last short, restless night. The past two weeks have been nothing short of agonizing for him; he was in Ered Luin just long enough to reacquaint himself with his desperate love for his sister and her sons, then departed to cruel rejection in the Iron Hills, before finally riding the long leagues to Bree. Now he rides to Hobbiton, to see his loyal Company and his… well.

He takes a deep breath of the fresh morning air, a feeling he's grown much too fond of. Swinging up onto his pony, too, is a much more natural feeling than it should be, though the muscles of his lower back protest at the further abuse.

"Come girl," he says quietly, clicking his tongue, "We've a long ride before us."

They trot out of Bree, pausing only long enough for the sleepy watchman to open the gate. The ferryhobbits are even slower at answering his summons, and Thorin is forced to spend a disagreeable amount of time waiting to cross the river. Once there, however, Thorin quickly finds the rhythm of the road and lets his mind drift.

There are many dark things for him to dwell on; there always are. He doesn't go a day with peace, has not for a century and a half. The burdened feeling does not lift with the knowledge of the quest; if anything, it exacerbates the heavy press at his shoulders. Of late, his thoughts return always to the despair that greeted him when he first awoke. The urge to wail and lament his fate scrambled up his throat so urgently he fairly choked on them and remained silent, which was well enough, as he did not wish to startle or concern Dis. He did the best he could to shelter Dis and his sister-sons from his black melancholy, but his feelings were harder to disguise than he’d remembered. The gold-sickness had obscured all, and even the clarity of pain hadn’t restored the full color of his memories.

His back is by necessity turned to the sunrise, but he sees that it has chased the night to the very far edge of his horizon, washing the sky with blue and soft tendrils of dusky pink just over his head. The path ahead is empty and enticing, unseen birds sing in the morning, and Thorin is helpless but to drink in the beauty. His mind goes still for a moment.

Sometimes, as his mind grows quiet and he’s just on the edge of sleep, Thorin thinks he’s dying again.

He remembers that all; surely a curse the Valar ensured he suffer, a penance for his crimes.

He still feels strength receding from his bones, like his very essence was detaching and curling within himself; he still feels the scrabbling panic as his eyesight began to fail, focusing on the hobbit as the edges grew black and pulled closer.

His hobbit, shrouded in that ridiculous wedding garb, the shimmering mithril cloth so incongruous with the battle-filth caked to Bilbo's skin and the streaks of blood trickling from his hair, is engraved on his eyelids, face framed perfectly by the swirling darkness.

Thorin starts with a shudder. This is not the first time the thoughts have chased him into daylight, and there are times when Thorin prefers that they come at night. When they come at night, if Thorin can fall asleep, he oft wakes to a faint smell of flowers and an even weaker sense of hope. Hope is harder to find without a respite from his harsh reality.

The path cuts through a small stand of birch trees, and Thorin leans his head back, admiring the outline of the white trunks against the pale blue sky. He inhales deeply, and another memory unfolds like a map.

The feeling of sleeping on a bedroll gone flat over time, wakening to the disappearance of comforting warmth, a tilt of the head leading to an onrush of that well-beloved early morning scent. Watching Bilbo watching the sunrise, knees pulled close to Bilbo's chest and his hands clasped loosely in front, songbirds heralding a new day, the sun stretching across the sky. Asking a question that startles himself and draws Bilbo back in.

"What are you thinking about?"

The smile Bilbo gave Thorin will always mean sunrise and crisp air and birdsong and peace.

"You know those moments, those places that are so perfect you can think of nothing else and all you have is all you can sense in this moment? And if you try to describe later, you can't say anything, because you literally thought of nothing but those sensations, and they're gone and there's no getting back?"

No, Thorin didn’t know that feeling (doesn't know that feeling), but he didn't want the worry in Bilbo's eye again, so he gently tugged Bilbo back under the furs and kissed him deep.

Today, this morning, the path is wide and gentle beneath his pony, and a golden day is beginning, and Thorin will see his husband this night. He tries to use Bilbo's smile and his songbirds to chase the rest away, and even manages enough cheer to softly whistle a walking tune the hobbit had been fond of.

 

It is significantly later, the sun most decidedly in the west's favor, when Thorin sees a trio of dwarrows ahead. They appear to have just finished a roadside meal, and Thorin raises a shout to prevent their departure. They wait patiently for him to join them. He has not been cantering towards them for long before he realizes that it is Bofur, Bifur and Bombur waiting. Bofur swings himself into the saddle just as Thorin begins to pull abreast. The four swap pleasantries without dismounting, and nudge their ponies forward into a mutual pace.

Thorin has mixed feelings about arriving at Bag End in a group, but this clan is doing a good job of keeping his dreary thoughts away with their excessive chatter, and what does it really matter either way?

Thorin saves time by not losing his way twice, but dark has fallen as they turn onto Bag Shot Row. Gandalf looms out of the dusk suddenly, and all four dwarrows draw their weapons before they realize who it is. The wizard chuckles, and exchanges not-quite-polite (on Thorin's part, least) pleasantries as the dwarrows dismount.

They tie the ponies to a nearby tree; Bifur ties Thorin's for him because Thorin's hands have begun to shake wildly.

When they send him inquisitive looks, he brushes them aside with a "I have been clutching reins for a fortnight now," and moves to the gate into Bag End.

Gandalf has on that particular thinking look that almost invariably means trouble.

Thorin smiles shakily at the sight of the mark on Bilbo's door, and raises his trembling knuckles to knock. He wants to hide his weakness, but his knees are threatening to collapse. He elects to carefully lean his weight on the door. For some reason the dwarrows take this as an invitation to crowd about him.

Thorin's strength is absolutely gone when he hears Bilbo (Thorin chokes on his heart in his throat) snap, "Confounded dwarves, have to show up one at a time, I have better things to do than open the door ten times-"

The dwarf doesn't think to remove his weight from the door, and the next thing he knows is Bombur's girth pressing Thorin into the smooth flagstones of Bag End.

* * *

Seeing Bilbo again, in the comfort of his childhood home, the only home he’s ever known, brings Thorin no peace. His heart had sat still, true, the moment he met eyes with a chuckling BIlbo (about which Thorin still feels a bit miffed; all this heartache, and Thorin isn’t even given the chance at impressing his husband), yet the mirth had died quickly enough, and Thorin had been forced to watch as his belovevd hobbit’s knuckles turned white, watch his back as it disappeared into the dim comfort of Bag End. The hobbit was clearly rattled, and he was forced to let him be; there could be no reason why a wild, dirty dwarf would comfort a hobbit. There never should be a reason for it.

It had been a hasty marriage, Thorin knows. A hasty reconciliation, a hasty wedding, and a hasty goodbye.

Had he survived the battle, had he been strong enough to withstand Azog's onslaught and killed the beast before it laid him low and his nephews lower, Thorin knows he would not have been married to Bilbo for many months, if ever at all. They'd only begun courting in Esgaroth, and then it was only the courtship of the road. Courting had quickly fallen to the wayside in Thorin's madness; in the pursuit of the Arkenstone, Bilbo had been no more relevant than a single gold coin.

Until, of course, the revelation upon the battlements.

Something jostles his elbow and Thorin grunts in surprise, lifting his arm higher to prevent his drink from spilling. He blinks to find Bilbo standing there with a bright smile and a stack of dirty dishes.

"Forgive my clumsiness, Mister Dwarf! I'm afraid I can hardly see over this tremendous tower your companions have left me with!” Bilbo seems alright, standing steady and carefully balancing the plates, though Thorin sees plainly the red rimming the hobbit’s eyes.

“Pray, don’t mention it,” Thorin says. No response comes from Bilbo, and so Thorin peers into his cup absentmindedly. After a moment, Bilbo clears his throat.

“My apologies, but I'm afraid I need to get right through there to get to the kitchen,” Bilbo says, nodding his head towards the corridor Thorin is quite thoroughly blocking.

“Ah.”

Thorin easily swallows the remainder of his drink and places his cup on the teetering piles of dishes. An indignant noise bursts from Bilbo, but the dwarf carefully snatches the entire stack before he can start scolding.

“Allow me to help.”

Bilbo purses his lips, though Thorin can distinctly see the smile curling in the corners, and says, "About time one of you dwarves tries to make up for your atrocious lack of table manners."

"We dwarrows do have a regrettable habit of forgetting the most basic of niceties in the face of skillful cooking," Thorin says with the utmost gravity.

"Hobbits, too, tend to get caught up in good food, but we still remember how to use a fork." Bilbo says, smirking. "Now, this way, if you please, Mister Dwarf." He begins to pad down the hall towards the kitchen, Thorin following.

"I do believe Gandalf told you my name."

"Yes, I daresay he did, but who says I remember it?"

"Very well," Thorin says as they enter the kitchen. He gently sets the dishes on the counter and inclines his head towards Bilbo, tucking in his chin and bending slightly at the waist, "Well met, Master Baggins. Thorin Oakenshield, at your service."

Bilbo's smile again lights up the room, "Quite pleased to meet you, Mister Oakenshield. Bilbo Baggins, at your service and your family's. As I believe I've already proven," He adds with a laugh, turning to move the dishes into the wash basin already full with water and suds. Thorin leans against the doorway and watches the hobbit break down the tower into smaller sections.

Raucous cheers suddenly erupt from the dining room, as well as a few warnings in Khuzdul. Thorin closes his eyes with a groan.

“Don't look now, but I do believe one of my nephews is walking on your table."

Bilbo sighs himself and mutters, "Dwarves. No respect for anything but stone."

"Ah, that I must protest. Did we not discuss our races' mutual respect for good food just a moment ago?"

"If that is how Dwarves show respect, I should shudder to attend any ceremony of import with your people."

Thorin bites back the urge to tell the hobbit that he’d been the reason for the most important ceremony of them all, and instead allows another lull with a small hum.

"Say, Baggins!” Dwalin’s voice calls from the pantry, “Is it some sort of Halfling tradition to keep bad cheese?”

“Look at this!” Balin calls, “Entirely blue! Absolutely riddled with mold!”

“No, it is not moldy! Don’t touch it!” Bilbo yells back, and hurries past Thorin to save his cheese from the dwarrows. He pulls up short at the sound of a thick splat. He screw his eyes shut and huffs in exasperation. “ _Dwarves_.”

“Forgive their ignorance, Master Baggins, and their manners. We dwarrows are entirely unfamiliar with the ways of hobbits, and I’m afraid my company is proving that to best of their abilities.”

“Well, perhaps you all ought to learn!” BIlbo snaps, turning to look at Thorin. Despite his tone, the hobbit has a smile teasing the ends of his mouth.

“We would be glad to do so, Master Baggins, if you join us on our venture. I myself am greatly interested in your culture.” Thorin hopes his desperation for hope, for a yes, will masquerade well enough as sincerity.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Bilbo responds. He holds Thorin’s gaze for a long heartbeat, until he finally disappears around the corner towards the pantry.

Thorin can’t help the soft smile tugging at his lips; the corners of his mouth are as willful as his hobbit. He looks down at his hands, flexing them slightly, studiously ignoring his shaky breaths.

_We’ll see._

So close to a gift, and so far from a promise.

Thorin tries to groan as he leans against the doorframe, but his throat is dry and empty. He is wrong to panic, he knows this, but oh, Bilbo. His Bilbo. What will Thorin do if he does not come? The dwarf puts his head to the doorframe with a solid thunk, and breathes deep.

"Uncle?"

Thorin turns to see Kili padding towards him, smiling wide, "Gandalf says you should come join us in the dining room. Important quest knowledge, contracts to be presented, the like."

Thorin nods, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in a fortifying breath. When he opens them again, Kili stands in front of him, peering up at him. Thorin can't say what or why, but something in the gaze feels...unsettled.

"What is it, _gimlith_?"

"I..." Kili's brows knit together, and Thorin aches to see such an expression on his young face. Thorin knows the feel of it well, and the thoughts that generate it better.

He is a fool and a poor uncle still. It will take life, not death, to teach him how to properly cares for his family, if he can even learn.

A few more Khuzdul words escape him as he draws Kili close, lightly pushing their foreheads together and muttering the same assurances as those he gave at Kili's first breath.

Kili does not stay in his embrace as long as he might once have. The young dwarf backs out of Thorin's arms, shakes his body vigorously, as if trying throw off enemies, and gives him a bright smile, "They will have everything decided without us by now, Uncle!"

They return to the dining room, where Thorin finds his plate untouched and Kili slides back next to Fili. Thorin catches a glimpse of Kili, brow still furrowed, brushing his fingers along Fili's jawline, exactly where the goblin, that final goblin, had...

Nori leans across the table, grabbing at one foodstuff or another, obscuring Thorin's view and when he leans back, the two brothers are laughing uproariously and Gandalf is trying to hand him his father's map.

"A little more light, perhaps, Bilbo," the wizard says, and Thorin steps back into familiar territory.

* * *

Bilbo does not faint this time, but neither does he agree to come, and Thorin is left staring into the fire, trying not to bite off the stem of his pipe.

"The lad hasn't said no yet, Thorin," Balin says, placing a hand on Thorin's shoulder, "And if he does, I cannot believe the quest will not suffer any true loss."

Balin does not aid in his attempt to keep his pipe stem whole.

After a moment, Balin merely sighs and joins his brother on the other side of the room. Almost on cue, Bilbo enters the room through the doorway nearest Thorin, carrying a stack of quilts he can barely see over. Thorin takes it upon himself to help Bilbo distribute them, staying silent as Bilbo tells the dwarrows the arrangements he has made for them, directing a few to guest rooms when they should choose to retire and telling the rest they'll have to make do with the floor here in the sitting room, as "no hobbit hole is built to fit thirteen dwarves and a confounded wizard, not even the biggest in all Hobbiton."

"Thank you kindly, Master Baggins," Thorin says once Bilbo is finished, taking the final blanket from the hobbit. Bilbo's eyes widen as Thorin's hands linger over his, and he beats what seems to be a hasty retreat. The rest of the company nod their thanks, and Thorin returns to the hearthstone.

Soon, Bilbo is laughing along with the dwarven antics, and Thorin resists the urge to brace himself against the warmed stone.

Bilbo's laugh has always felt like something akin to sunshine brushing his skin, and to hear it entwined with his nephews' sparkling cheer is more a balm to his weary heart than he'd expected.

Still, the joviality of the room seems strained, forced. He leads a dangerous path, and his kin know it. The weight of the coming months is a stone on his chest again, and it's the worse for knowing his kin suffers too.

Abruptly, the facade wears out, and a troop of weary dwarrows and a wary hobbit stare quietly into the fire.

From some unidentifiable source, a different sound comes swelling, more honest and true than before; and it is suddenly a chorus, the deep rumble of all dwarven song intermingling with the sorrow that has tainted his folk. The dark wildness of him awakes, and Thorin thinks only of his home burning, of his life's path twisting in on itself, and naught of his husband behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gimlith: the star that is young
> 
> ignore the stupid freaking note below this. I can't get it to go away and it's ticking me off. it's meant for the first chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> technically this should be a prologue, but it's not for Reasons.


End file.
